


The Hanukkah Visit

by TogetherAgain



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has PTSD (Good Omens), Hanukkah, Historical, Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TogetherAgain/pseuds/TogetherAgain
Summary: Hanukkah, 1913. Aziraphale gets a visit from the prophet Elijah. He comes with candles, latkes, conversation, advice, and a warning.Aziraphale has a lot of thinking to do.CWs for brief mentions of: period-typical homophobia, child birth, and panic attacks.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21





	The Hanukkah Visit

**London, 23 December, 1913**

Aziraphale sighed as he stared out his window at the smog-filled streets of London.

He was tired.

It was too early for many humans to be out yet, but soon they would be bustling about, getting ready for the approaching holidays. Christmas was only two days away, and then would come the new year. 1913 would be over soon. A few humans around here would be celebrating Hanukkah. That was starting soon, wasn’t it? He had rather lost track.

It had been fifty-one years since he’d seen Crowley. He tried to pretend not to know how many months. If he thought too long about it, he would know the exact number of days and hours. Best not to think about it.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been busy. He _had_. Perhaps that was why he felt so tired. There was so _much_ work to do. Too much, if he was being honest. He had been trying to nudge Parliament and society as a whole about a few things. The only one that seemed to be making _any_ progress was for women to get the right to vote… and the truth was, that had more to do with Crowley’s efforts than Aziraphale’s.

Meanwhile, men were still jailed and killed for loving men, and Pollution was running rampant. _That_ was probably the most exhausting issue, for Aziraphale.

The fog he was staring at could so easily turn deadly.

It _had_ turned deadly. Multiple times, now. It grew too thick, and it lingered too long, and lives were lost because of it. Smog, they had started calling it; smoke and fog together. The worst had been in 1890. For a week, it had been so thick that you couldn’t see your own hand at the end of your arm. Over a thousand lives had been snuffed out, right under Aziraphale’s nose, and he’d been helpless to defend them from it. In the midst of all that, Pollution themself had shown their face, right outside his shop.

That had been the last straw. Aziraphale had snapped. It was just _too much_. Direct confrontation against any of the Horsepeople was strictly forbidden, mostly because it didn’t really work, and Aziraphale’s God-given flaming sword was long gone. None of that had stopped him. He had summoned one of his man-made swords to hand and attacked. He had smited Pollution.

It hadn’t really accomplished anything, of course. He was still waiting for the reprimand he was sure was coming for him from Heaven. There hadn’t been any yet.

There _had_ been yet another in a long line of angels sent down for him to mentor, briefly, before they were sent on to their own assignment. The angel had been somewhat pleasant company for a few days, although Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling like all of the angels he “trained” were always judging him and his more Earthly habits. That particular angel had been sent to oversee the construction of the Titanic. The only remotely _good_ thing from that tragic ordeal was that when the ship sank, it wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault. That, and the fact that all reports indicated Crowley had survived the sinking, without discorporating. So had the other angel, for that matter. Aziraphale hadn’t been on the ship in the first place. 

The faint idea of sunlight was struggling to push its way through the smog now, and he could hear more movement outside as people started going about their day. With a heavy sigh, Aziraphale turned away from the window. He made his way upstairs to tidy up the flat, which had actually seen some use recently and would need freshening up.

Not _everything_ was doom and gloom, he firmly reminded himself. Just last week, he had delivered a baby.

Well, _caught_ a baby, really. The mother did the delivering.

The young woman had gone into labor right there in his shop, so he’d dusted off skills that he hadn’t used in a while. The poor dear had been terrified, but he’d assured her that it was not his first time doing this. He couldn’t tell her how _many_ times, of course. There was no easy explanation for why an old bookseller would have delivered nearly a thousand babies. It turned out that most of the mother’s fear was because she had nowhere to go. So, obviously, Aziraphale had offered use of the flat that he was just as likely to forget he had.

Mother and baby were doing well, and they had left yesterday because a dear friend was suddenly able to take them in, after all.

He took the time to clean the flat the human way, sweeping the floors and changing the linens on the bed. A new mother was not his usual kind of guest, these days. He was far more likely to provide a safe haven for a man, or a few men, who only needed a place to hide for the night to avoid being arrested or worse. Sometimes they were injured. Sometimes they were terrified. Sometimes they honestly thought they would face eternal punishment, just for being what they were. He helped them in any way he could, and that included more than a few angelic nudges and boosts and pushes for the laws to change, and for the research to prove that love was neither a sin, nor a crime, nor a mental illness. It was just _love_.

None of his efforts seemed to make any difference. Crowley had always been so much cleverer on how to bring about social change. Cleverer, and more patient, and thus, more effective. It was probably because of his predisposition to make mischief. Aziraphale knew how to placate, but _Crowley_ knew how to ruffle feathers.

 _Don’t think about Crowley_.

It was no wonder, really, that Aziraphale had started seeking out any diversion he could find. He had learned how to do magic tricks, the _human_ way. It was _delightful_ , how they had learned to make things _seem_ to appear and disappear. He had joined a discreet gentleman’s club. He had learned the _gavotte_ , of all things! (And if Heaven wasn’t going to reprimand him for smiting Pollution, then _surely_ they _would_ do so for the appallingly unangelic behavior of _dancing._ )

He was _so_ tired. He doubted it was the kind of tiredness that sleep would help, but he was nearly desperate enough to try it. But there was _so much_ work to be done, and he couldn’t do any of it if he was sleeping.

He opened his shop instead.

For a few hours, humans trickled in and out. Most looked at books without making much effort to purchase any. Some came in for a few minutes out of the cold, or to rest their feet. Two very discreetly asked Aziraphale for help with something other than books. Three others stopped in to ask for directions to somewhere else. Several suddenly found that they had a little more pocket change than they’d thought.

He closed up a little before sunset, which was _so early_ this time of year. Aziraphale did like his customers, when they weren’t buying anything. The flow of humans helped him take his mind off all his burdens and shortcomings, if only for a little while. Besides, the people who needed him had a habit of finding him when the shop was open. If they came when the shop _wasn’t_ open, the door always unlocked for them anyway. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was _his_ doing or Someone else’s—or, at this point, if the shop itself had a figurative hand in it.

Now, as he started putting away the books that had been moved, all of his weariness settled right back in. It hadn’t really _left_ , with the humans here. It had just been easier to ignore. A few humans who saw him more regularly than most had commented lately that he seemed tired, and was he doing well? That was proof enough that the weariness didn’t really vanish, and—more worryingly—that he wasn’t hiding it quite as well as he had hoped he was.

There was a knock at the door.

Aziraphale slowed to a stop, having just slid a book into place, and he turned to frown towards the entrance. That was _odd_. Generally speaking, no one ever knocked on the door of a shop. This was not the brisk knock of the constable, looking for a missing person, a suspect, or possible witnesses. It was not the desperate knock of a human in need of angelic assistance, and again, the door usually opened for them of its own volition. Nor was it the specific _rhythm_ of knocks that he’d been spreading around the gay community, if they needed to duck in quickly and discreetly. Perhaps someone didn’t know the code? Or maybe someone was looking for donations, or searching for a lost hat.

He hurried to the door. Whoever it was, it wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. Unless it was an unfriendly demon being _extraordinarily_ dense, but his wards would have informed him of _that_ sort of presence.

That thought stopped him just before he opened the door. He reached out with his angelic senses. The entity on the other side of this door was neither angel nor demon, but they weren’t quite human, either. They had, however, _started_ as human, which narrowed the field considerably. Aziraphale carefully pressed a smile onto his face and opened the door. His smile turned slightly more genuine when he recognized his visitor, and he opened the door fully and stepped back to make room. “Do come in, Elijah,” he said politely.

“Thank you, Aziraphale. Happy Hanukkah!”

Oh, dear. Had that started already?

Elijah could change his appearance in a number of different ways, but he preferred to look as he did now: like a short old man, with a white-and-gray curly beard, and complexion a few shades darker than many would likely expect; for some reason, modern humans tended to forget that Ancient Israel had been (and still was) in the Middle East. Whatever the time or the place, he was most likely to dress as someone who was just _barely_ making ends meet. Tonight, he did at least have a decently warm coat on. Upon entering the shop, he immediately turned to face the window. “Ah, good! You haven’t lit yet. I was worried I would be late.”

Not likely, given that just a moment ago, Aziraphale’s menorah had definitely not been proudly placed in the window, as it was now. Of course, Elijah could occasionally make things happen because he _expected_ them to be so. No harm done.

From under his thick coat, Elijah produced his own modest little candelabra and a box of candles. “Do you mind if I join you for the blessings?”

“Oh, by all means, I would be delighted!” Aziraphale said, pretending for a moment that he actually had a choice in the matter. “May I take your coat for you?”

“Oh, yes, thank you.” He smirked as he took the coat off and handed it to Aziraphale. “I keep it on sometimes, for the humans, you know. Make things _appear_ out of the sleeves. It gets _miserably_ hot. Nice to take it off.”

Aziraphale chuckled. There was something very nice about being able to discuss _not_ being human with someone who _also_ understood about _not_ being human. Like Crowley. _Don’t think about Crowley_. He hung up the coat.

Elijah had placed his menorah next to Aziraphale’s in the window, and was now putting candles in. Aziraphale glanced at the number of candles he’d used and was relieved to see that it was only the first night. He put two candles in his own menorah—one all the way on the right, and one in the spot set apart from the others for the shamash. Side by side, the angel and the prophet each struck a match, lit their respective shamash candles, and used that candle to light the other.

Together, they sang three blessings in Hebrew. It was _nice_. Aziraphale did not usually sing very loudly. In the privacy of his shop, with only Elijah there, he felt no need to hide how easily he could harmonize with—well with _anyone_ , really. And singing God’s praise… Well, he had never been a Seraph, but there was still something innately _angelic_ about singing praise to God.

The first blessing was standard enough, thanking God for the commandment to light the candles. Jews spent a lot of time thanking God for giving them commandments. The second blessing was fine, thanking God for miracles “performed at this time,” long ago. Aziraphale had personally overseen the miraculous military victory, which had since been downplayed in hopes of _not_ making the Jewish people look like a threat. Gratitude to God for miracles was always reasonable, regardless. The third blessing, though, thanked God for “keeping us alive” and “sustaining us to this time.” Singing God’s praise felt nice, but that particular blessing rang a little hollow for Aziraphale. He hadn’t been feeling very sustained lately. Not that he was ungrateful.

_Was this how Crowley felt, before he Fell? He was a Seraph, meant to sing God’s praise. Was this how it felt?_

_Don’t think about that. Don’t think about Crowley_.

With all the blessings done, the candles glowed a little brighter. After taking a moment to enjoy their light, Elijah closed his eyes and sniffed. “Ah… It smells like your latkes are almost done,” he said.

Sure enough, it did smell like latkes, and Aziraphale could hear the sizzle of oil coming from his kitchenette in the back room. Which was odd, because he most certainly had _not_ been making latkes. _So that’s how we’re playing, then?_ he thought, and he raised an eyebrow at the prophet. “ _And_ the sufganiyot,” he said, and a new aroma obligingly filled the shop.

“Mmm!” Elijah hummed appreciatively. “My friend, you _truly_ know how to dine!”

And dine they did. As a rule, miracled food never really tasted quite right… unless Elijah was involved. Elijah’s miracled food was always delicious, and any food Aziraphale miraculously added to the meal would taste just as good. And because Elijah had _started_ as a human, he still tended to think of food as _necessary_ , and he enjoyed eating food that tasted good. All of that meant that Elijah was one of the remarkably few supernatural entities with whom Aziraphale could enjoy a meal without shame. (There was only one other name on that list.) The latkes and the sufganiyot were _scrumptious_.

While they ate, they chatted about the sorts of things one simply couldn’t discuss with humans, like how modern music compared to that in Ancient Rome, and whether tuxedos were more difficult to wear than togas.

Elijah was in his own little odd category, in the scheme of things. In _theory_ , he was aligned with God and Heaven, but he did not fit in with Heaven’s hierarchy. He did not take orders from any Archangels, or any other angels. He was not required to submit any reports, although he could, if he chose to. In some ways, he was a bit of a free agent. As such, Aziraphale had never felt like he could _completely_ relax with the prophet, but he felt he could relax considerably more than he did with, say, Michael or Gabriel, for instance.

So when they had cleared the table from their meal and Elijah pulled out a dreidel, Aziraphale just smiled and said, “What shall we wager?”

Elijah gave him a speculative look. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to play for _duties_? For the year? You could take Passover…?”

Aziraphale raised a hand to stop him. “I helped you _once_ with Passover, and that was _quite_ enough, thank you.”

Elijah sighed and shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying!”

They played for raisins, because why not? Aziraphale kept nibbling at his stash, but he could always miracle up more if he needed to. They used a little wooden dreidel, which Elijah kept trying to spin upside-down, with varying levels of success. Aziraphale tried it once, and did it perfectly.

“No fair,” Elijah groaned. “You get more miracles than I do!”

Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, but _you_ miracle better _food_ ,” he said, holding up a raisin for emphasis before popping it in his mouth. Elijah shrugged to concede the point.

Aziraphale never discussed miraculous abilities with Crowley. Unspoken between them was the fact that Crowley was more powerful. Aziraphale was the better fighter, but neither of them cared much for fighting. Least of all with each other.

 _Don't think about Crowley_.

The conversation drifted over various topics, none of them terribly significant. They played dreidel until they had both eaten their fill of raisins and the candles were just barely flickering in their holders.

Elijah sighed as he sank back in his chair. They had sung a few traditional Hanukkah songs. Now he murmured another tune. “ _Hinei ma tov uma na’im… shevet achim gam yachad…_ ”

Aziraphale sighed. “How good it is, to gather together,” he translated. A loose translation, but good enough.

“ _Very_ good, indeed,” Elijah said, and he eyed the angel. “It isn’t right, to go through this world alone.”

That struck a nerve. Aziraphale straightened up. “…No, I suppose it isn’t,” he said, as mildly as he could. He folded his hands in his lap. “…Do _you_ ever feel alone?”

Elijah tilted his head and tugged on his beard, giving it considerable thought. “Occasionally,” he decided, and he shrugged. “But when I do, I can always visit my loved ones who’ve passed on. They remind me I am _not_ alone. And of course,” he gestured to Aziraphale, “there are plenty of supernatural beings here on Earth who understand me well enough.”

 _Supernatural beings_ was the vaguest way of putting it. It implied that Elijah did not limit his social calls to angels. Perhaps he visited demons, too. For all Aziraphale knew, the prophet could have even been on friendly terms with one or more of the Horsepeople. 

Elijah was in his own category.

And he was still _watching_ the angel. “ _You_ are not meant to be alone either, Aziraphale,” he said.

Aziraphale looked at the candles in the window, and then at the medal he’d been given when he’d opened his shop. “I’m not,” he said stiffly. He wished he believed it. _Don’t take me back to Heaven. Please, please don’t._

Elijah’s eyes bored into him. “You _shouldn’t_ be,” he said softly.

Aziraphale resolutely met his gaze and gave him a tight smile. _I’m fine. I’m perfectly splendid. Not lonely at all. Please don’t send me back to Heaven._ He had no idea if Elijah even had the authority to relocate him, or if the prophet could or would influence Gabriel and the other Archangels to pull him from his station on Earth, but why risk it? _All is well. Nothing to see here. Please believe me._

Elijah stared at him a moment longer. Then he shook his head, rolled his eyes, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like the Hebrew for _crazy angel_ , which Aziraphale graciously ignored.

One of the candles in Elijah’s menorah went out.

“I want to warn you,” Elijah said quietly. He looked out the window with a far-away gaze. “War is coming.”

Aziraphale winced. On top of everything else… “I’ve been worried it might be,” he admitted. “With all the alliances lately… It seems nearly everyone is sworn to defend someone else, to fight if someone else fights…”

“A tangled web,” Elijah said solemnly.

“Not quite tangled enough,” Aziraphale said.

Elijah gave him a baffled look.

“...Well, with a bit _more_ … tangling, so to speak, _everyone_ would be allied with _everyone_. And then, no one _could_ fight,” Aziraphale explained. “Or so one would hope, at least.” He looked at the remains of their dreidel game. “It’s what I was hoping for,” he quietly admitted.

Somewhere under the beard, Elijah gave him a weary smile. “Would that it were so,” he said sadly. 

Aziraphale sighed. “Foolish hope, I suppose.”

But Elijah shook his head. “I can’t believe it is _ever_ foolish to hope for peace. Least of all for anyone who has ever known war.” He settled back in his chair, and then he reached out and spun the dreidel—right side up, this time. “There will be two wars,” he whispered, watching the dreidel spin. “One after the other, with some time in between.” He raised his eyes to look at the angel’s face. “For your _own_ sake, Aziraphlae… do not go to any of the battlefields in the first war. And in the second, do not go to the continent at all.”

The dreidel wobbled in its spin, and then clattered against the table as it landed on _nun_ : lose a turn. In conjunction with the prophet’s words, it seemed ominous. 

It was easy enough to guess the _reason_ for the warning. _The_ War, the very first one, Angels against the newly Fallen, had left countless scars. Physically, Aziraphale did not have any. No matter how hard he looked—his hand reflexively touched his neck and felt only the familiar bowtie—he had never found a single scar on either his physical or his metaphysical body. _His_ scars were much, much deeper than that. He had never spoken about it to _anyone_ , except for a few humans who had similar scars, to assure them that they weren’t alone. Even then, he only used the vaguest of terms. Certainly, he had never told anyone in _Heaven_ about his… issues. Weaknesses. But prophets had a habit of knowing things they hadn’t been told. 

It had been two dozen centuries now since Aziraphale had last had one of his fits—he didn’t know what else to call those… _reactions_ that he had.1 Two dozen centuries, and yet there were still times when he felt like he was on the brink of one, like the slightest wrong move would send him spiraling through flashbacks and panic and everything else. Human violence was an obvious trigger, of course, but once just the sight of an obsidian knife in Crowley’s hand had very nearly been _too much_.

If Elijah said to avoid any battlefields in one war, and a particular region in another war… well, then, that was exactly what Aziraphale would do. But the fact that Elijah was not part of Heaven’s hierarchy, and did not receive or _give_ orders, was suddenly much more relevant. 

“...What will I do if I am _ordered_ to go there?” Aziraphale asked warily.

Elijah opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. And then there was a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m sure you’d be able to _arrange_ something,” he murmured.

Aziraphale’s entire body went completely still and tense. His mind raced. _The Arrangement. Did you use that word intentionally? Do you know? How much do you know? Have you told anyone? WILL you tell anyone? Are we safe?_ “I… I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said, and he pressed his lips into a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

Elijah softened. “...I’m sure I don’t mean anything,” he said gently. “Just a rambling old man, you know.”

Aziraphale huffed at the excuse. “You are younger than I am, dear boy.” He fussed with his coat, smoothing it out.

“Yes, but you were never _meant_ to age,” Elijah said.

At that, Aziraphale frowned, and he looked at his guest. “Do _you_ still age?” he asked.

Elijah held his hands up and shrugged. “I’m not even entirely sure why I never died, in the first place,” he said.

“...Mm.” Aziraphale nodded warily.

The second candle in Elijah’s menorah spluttered out. They both looked over and watched the wisp of smoke that marked the flame’s demise.

“...Perhaps I shouldn’t overstay my welcome,” Elijah said. He slowly stood up and pushed in his chair, and Aziraphale stood with him. “I’ve had a very good time. I must thank you for the meal. And the game.” He smiled wearily. “And the company, of course.”

“It was delightful to see you,” Aziraphale said, and for the most part, he even meant it. It would be several more hours before he noticed it, but most of his weariness had truly vanished. “You must come again some time.” He walked his guest to the door.

“Remember what I said,” Elijah said seriously as he put on his coat.

Aziraphale instinctively squeezed his hands together. “Avoid any battlefields in the next war, and the continent completely in the one after,” he said quietly, and he nodded. “I’ll remember.” He twisted his hands. “Thank… Thank you for warning me.”

As he collected his menorah, Elijah gave him an odd sideways look that made him wonder if he’d forgotten something. Then the prophet stepped closer to him. “You _don’t_ have to be _alone_ , Aziraphale.”

 _Yes, I do,_ Aziraphale thought. But he just nodded.

Satisfied that his message had been received—or at least, as received as it was ever going to be—Elijah tugged his coat a little tighter and turned to leave. “ _Chag sameach_ , Aziraphale,” he said.

“ _Chag sameach_ , Elijah,” Aziraphale said, holding the door open. “Mind how you go.”

When he closed the door and turned around, the table they had cleared to eat their meal and play dreidel was once again covered in books. The dishes were all clean and put away, as if they had never been used. The only trace of Elijah’s visit was the fact that Aziraphale’s menorah was still in the window, with both candles still burning low.2

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured. “I hope he doesn’t do that to humans, too. I’ll have to speak with him about it.” When your intention was to _help_ humans, it was usually best _not_ to leave them with excessive reasons to doubt their own memories, or their sanity. Although sometimes, it couldn’t be helped.

With no dishes to wash, Aziraphale walked an efficient loop around his shop, checking that his wards were still intact, as he so often did when he allowed himself to indulge in certain… possibly traitorous thoughts. 

The least dangerous thought he had just now was that apparently, there were two wars coming, likely with some new, unusually gruesome form of fighting, and he would likely be spending them on the sidelines, where he would be fairly useless at protecting or helping _anyone_.

With that in mind, Aziraphale did the only sensible thing: he made tea.3

He focused on the details of it; the way his hand fit around the smooth handle of the old kettle, the smell of the tea leaves, the warmth of the cup as he cradled it in his palms… the taste, of course. Small, concrete details like these had kept his “fits” at bay for this long, and would surely continue to do so. He certainly couldn’t afford to have a relapse now. Not these days.

Aziraphale had never spoken to Crowley about any of his invisible scars. The demon knew, anyway. For two centuries after that incident with the obsidian knife, Crowley had very carefully chosen every meal he shared with Aziraphale, opting only for foods that didn’t need to be cut. When Aziraphale had finally asked him about his sudden aversion to nearly all forms of meat (among other things), the delicately gentle answer had been, _You don’t like when I hold a knife._ It had taken decades more to persuade him that food knives were different enough to not be a problem. 

And of course, Crowley also knew about Aziraphale’s fits. Aziraphale suspected that he could Sense them, somehow, because no matter how far apart they were, the demon always, _always_ appeared and stood guard outside while the angel was vulnerable. 

If it happened again _now_ , would Crowley still come to him?

 _Yes, yes, of course he would!_ Although… it wouldn’t be so easy, anymore. Using their own wings to fly—on Earth, anyway—had been completely banned. _Maybe not for demons, though._ Heaven had banned it in the 1870s, and Aziraphale had to assume that Hell had done the same. It was possible they hadn’t, but the two sides had always kept their rules oddly similar about such things. _And when has Crowley ever cared about following rules?_

Aziraphale carried his teacup out to the front of his shop. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince himself that there was even the slightest chance that Crowley _wouldn’t_ be there, even now, if he ever did… relapse. And that was a comfort.

No, no it _wasn’t_ a comfort! It was _concerning_! Crowley couldn’t possibly guard him without being close enough to get _caught_. It was dangerous! It was that much _more_ reason to make sure he very definitely _did not_ have a fit. Not that he ever _wanted_ to have one, in the first place!

Although, there _was_ a tiny part of him that thought it just might be worth it, if it meant catching just a glimpse of Crowley outside, or even potentially _speaking_ with him. It was the same small, rather pathetic part of him that had deliberately _stopped_ keeping up with fashion, with the desperate hope that Crowley would swoop in to correct him, the way they had often helped each other adapt to new places and cultures, including their wardrobes. He didn’t feel terribly inclined to listen to that part of himself, seeing as he had to be nearly fifty years out of date by now, and there was no sign of any forthcoming demonic fashion advice.

And that was for the best, really. That was _safest_. Because it was dangerous for them to be around each other. So dangerous that Crowley had asked for Holy Water. _For if it all goes sideways_.

Aziraphale tightened his grip on his teacup.

No. No, the _best_ way to protect Crowley was to stay away from him. And even _that_ wouldn’t be enough if Elijah or any other prophet happened to bypass every precaution they had ever taken and just Knew, or even merely suspected, and decided to tell someone…

How much did Elijah know?

_Breathe. Smell the tea. Feel the cup in your hands, smooth and warm. Feel the cup, and then the tea, on your lips. Taste the tea. Feel the liquid on your tongue. Swallow. Feel it sliding down your throat._

Right.

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure when he’d closed his eyes, but he opened them now and found himself staring at the two flames on his menorah. They were uneven, of course, but they were so low now that the flames looked rather round, glowing yellow, with the black line of the wick in the center… well, they looked rather similar to a certain pair of eyes that he hadn’t had a clear view of in over a century. He couldn’t look away.

Elijah’s words circled through his head. _It isn’t right to go through this world alone. You are not meant to be alone. You don’t have to be alone._

At first, he had thought the prophet meant for him to return to Heaven, or at least seek the company of other angels. He was loathe to admit it, but the mere idea of it was positively dreadful. Heaven, for all its good points, wasn’t half as vibrant and colorful as Earth. Aziraphale felt certain that he would not feel entirely attached to himself, if he ever spent more than a day or two with so little sensory… stimulation, so to speak. As for the other angels, he had never really felt like he fit in with them. At best, they were curious about him and what he had to say about Earth. Many more were _tolerant_ , rather than curious. And there were plenty who always seemed… judgmental. Or condescending. Or, occasionally, repulsed. So no, he did not particularly care to try to _socialize_ with other angels. 

But that wasn’t really what Elijah had been suggesting, was it? No… that wasn’t quite the way the pieces fit together, now that he thought about it.

 _I’m sure you’d be able to arrange something_.

Apparently, Elijah knew about the Arrangement. And that was terrifying. But those words were not a threat or a warning, as Aziraphale had first thought. No, the prophet had been almost _teasing_ about it. He had all but _winked_!

Aziraphale thought back through the millennia to a wedding he had attended more than two thousand years ago. Two rival families had somehow been invited, and tensions had been high. And then Elijah had arrived. And then Crowley had arrived, too. With no time to plan any other course of action, Crowley and Aziraphale had done the best they could to stick to opposite edges of the gathering and glare as if they could barely refrain from attacking each other. Despite this, Elijah had somehow got them both to sit beside him for the meal, and had seemed to delight in giving a grand speech about peacefully breaking bread with your enemies—ostensibly aimed at the rival families. 

Since then, there had been a few more instances when all three of them had somehow been at the same event, and Aziraphale and Crowley tried to glare at each other from across the room, only to have the prophet cheerfully wrangle them into sitting and eating together. And then, well… as they became more accustomed to eating together _without_ any supernatural witnesses, they developed habits that took a _very_ conscious effort to conceal; for instance, the way they automatically knew which dishes to pass to each other, or how they would sneak bites off of each other’s plates, and how Crowley would slide his unfinished dessert over for Aziraphale to eat… He _thought_ they had been diligent enough, but perhaps they had let something slip, at some point. Of course, with Elijah being a _prophet_ , there was a chance he could know everything without even being on the same side of the planet.

Elijah had never really seemed to _expect_ Crowley and Aziraphale to oppose each other, had he? If anything, now that Aziraphale really thought about it, the prophet had almost seemed to _encourage_ them to… associate. And _now_ , well…

 _I’m sure you’d be able to arrange something_.

Well, that was _blatant_ encouragement.

But that didn’t mean it was _safe_.

Elijah was in his own odd category. In theory, he was aligned with Heaven, but he did not take orders from any angels. No one was even entirely sure if _God_ still gave Elijah orders. Still, if Aziraphale did something that seemed questionable and then told Heaven that he was acting on Elijah’s advice, they would almost certainly allow it.

Hell had no such obligation.

The flames in the menorah were so low now that there was nothing visible of either candle. They stared back at him, as unblinking as Crowley ever was.

It was all well and good for Aziraphale to risk his own head on Elijah’s advice. It was another matter entirely to endanger Crowley.

With a slow, deep breath, Aziraphale closed his eyes and reached out with his more ethereal senses, seeking the only sort of contact with Crowley he ever allowed himself now, and that as rarely as he could bear.

 _There_. Not far from here. Aziraphale could sense him— _her_ , beg pardon—seemingly in the same spot as last time. Perhaps that was her latest residence; she had been moving a lot, lately. Her mood was unreadable—it often was, like this—but she was awake, and she was unharmed, and she was _safe_.

And that was enough. It _had_ to be enough.4

He pulled himself back in and opened his eyes again to the two flames on the menorah, steadily gazing back at him, so very much like the eyes of a certain Serpent.

“I will keep you safe, Crowley,” he whispered. “No matter what.”

The flame of the shamash candle sputtered, and Aziraphale winced at the loss as it went out. Now there was only one eye—one _flame_ —watching him with the warm gaze of a familiar old acquaintance.

He stood with his forgotten cup of tea and watched that one, single flame until it, too, winked out with a serpentine curl of smoke that slithered up into the air and dissipated. 

[1] Modern humans would call them “panic attacks,” but that terminology didn’t exist yet in 1913. Humans at that time may have used the term “hysterics.”

[2] Well, that and a jar full of the raisins they’d used in their dreidel game, which Aziraphale would find in his cupboard the next day.

[3] It would be easy to think that Aziraphale was so partial to tea because he had spent so much time in England. It would be easy, but incorrect. Aziraphale had been drinking tea for centuries before it finally arrived in England in 1652. If that time happens to roughly correlate to when a certain angel started spending the vast majority of his time in England and got tired of having to leave the country for a perfect cup of his favorite beverage, then that is surely a coincidence. (It is not a coincidence at all. There may have been a little demonic intervention involved, though. Aziraphale doesn’t know that, but he has his suspicions.)

[4] Elsewhere in London, a demon was listening to the radio and writing her latest report to Head Office when she felt the familiar brush of a certain angel’s aura, seeking her out. _Again._ She put her pen down and turned her head towards Soho, as if she could actually see through every building between here and the angel in his shop. As always, the ethereal “touch” evoked a swirling storm of emotions, full of longing and bitterness and frustration and confusion and hurt and affection and, worst of all, _hope_. She thought about reaching _back_. Very often, when the angel reached out like this, the demon _thought_ about reaching back. She had never actually done so, and she didn’t tonight, either. She did, however, stand up and pour herself a very stiff drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Raechem for beta reading!
> 
> I originally intended to post this story on the first night of Hanukkah. This story did not agree with that plan, so I'm posting it on the fifth night instead. This story also may or may not result in a series of brief fics about Elijah interacting with Aziraphale and/or Crowley. There also may or may not eventually be a (probably multi-chapter) fic about that whole thing with the Titanic. I don't know. I'm not in charge here. I'm just the writer.
> 
> Friendly notes for any non-Jews: Every year at the Passover seder, we leave a cup of wine out for Elijah, and it's often part of the seder to open the door and welcome Elijah in. So, he has to go to every single seder, all over the world, two nights in a row. Doesn't really sound a like fun to me. It's not like he has time to sit and enjoy the hospitality. If he can't get someone else to do it for him entirely, I'm sure he'd love some assistance. Also, latkes are potato pancakes. Sufganiyot are jelly donuts. They are both traditional Hanukkah foods because they are fried in oil, and we've got an oil-related miracle to celebrate. _Chag sameach_ means "Happy holiday." Trying to spin a dreidel upside down is a thing that probably everybody does at some point. Some people are really good at it. I am very much NOT one of those people. 
> 
> The song Elijah sings here, _Hinei Ma Tov_ , translates in full as: "Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brothers to dwell together in unity." In this case, "brothers" is pretty much gender neutral. It has lots of different tunes, but the one I personally envision Elijah singing is the one I've known the longest. I have no idea if it actually existed yet in 1913, and I have no idea if it's the one Elijah would prefer, but if you're curious, it's in the first half of the video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKZEY5Q0Zdo 
> 
> I see a lot of fics where Crowley and Aziraphale are literally the ONLY immortal supernatural entities on Earth, so literally NO ONE ELSE understands them. I can see the appeal of that, but then it's easy to feel like in terms of possible romantic relationships, they have no other options at all. I like the idea of them having options, and choosing each other anyway. For his part, Elijah is probably too busy Shipping It to notice that he could be an option. Aziraphale and Crowley are too busy panicking about getting caught to notice that he's Shipping It. Come to think of it, maybe that's why Elijah doesn't try TOO hard to pass off the whole Passover Drinking Tour job. By this point, he's spent almost three thousand years trying to get those two idiots to just DATE, and he's really not the most patient of prophets. Who WOULDN'T need a drink (or several thousand)?
> 
> Happy Hanukkah, folks!


End file.
